


Atlas

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Character Study, Gen, Graphic Self Harm, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 20:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10499112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: Ignis carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He does it unnoticed, in shadows and silence, in support of his prince and in a role he never asked for. Occasionally, it becomes a touch too heavy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Kinkmeme fill, for a prompt requesting an angsty Ignis. Contains some fairly graphic descriptions of self-harm.

It’s always been the logical choice, as all of Ignis’s are. He’s young when he first takes to it- too young to see the decision as anything but rational. He won’t realize it was an ill-informed decision, a foolish and a dangerous one that will set him on an entirely irrational and illogical path, until he’s too far to turn back. The beginning, though? The beginning is just an experiment, just a hypothesis that requires testing. He’s read about it in a textbook, or maybe he heard it in a lecture. The details aren’t important in this case; it’s a big picture situation. It’s a chemical response, a pain stimulus and a release of endorphins. It’s simple biology. Completely logical.

 

Ignis runs his first trial in his quarters, after the prince has retired for the night. He is entirely clinical with the process, as is required for any proper experiment. He doesn’t consider the impetus. Ignis doesn’t think about the way he feels so exhausted all the time, far beyond his years. He doesn’t consider the stress of grooming a boy, only a couple of years younger than himself, to take the throne. He sets aside the expectations of perfection, the knowledge that nothing less will be accepted, and that he absolutely  _ cannot  _ fail. He ignores the fact that he spends sleepless hours staring at the ceiling, willing his limbs to stop fidgeting and his heart to stop racing and his mind to stop spinning with the idea of the next morning and every morning after. Details. Irrelevant. Symptoms to be cured. His focus, instead, is on the task at hand. It’s on the first aid kit, with all of the relevant materials arranged on his desk: antiseptic wipes, a wet little packet with the end torn open; gauze, unrolled and carefully trimmed and stacked in neat squares; medical tape, with shining blunt-nosed scissors laid across. 

 

The implement is less straightforward. It’s taken some consideration, and Ignis has still allowed himself options. Those items are set in a line on his desk: a drawing compass, a straight razor, a pocket knife (confiscated, he might add, from a prince who had no business with such an object), a pair of fabric shears. Nothing too hard to come by, nothing too suspicious, should they have been intercepted before the procedure. Ignis is nothing if not forward-thinking, overly cautious, conscious of each contingency. Sharp edges have been wiped with another, already disposed, antiseptic square. He’s stripped himself to shorts, cleaned the selected area. It’s a spot at the top of his thigh, milky skin he’s had to pull back the leg of the shorts to expose. Odds of discovery acceptably low. He’s pulled on the latex gloves from the kit. One can never be too careful. There’s another moment of thought, gloved fingers running over each option in turn. He settles on the razor. It seems the most obvious choice. The logical one. His fingers barely tremble when he takes it up.

 

The first cut is all wrong. Ignis is aware of this immediately. His touch is too light and the line is too short. Just a scratch, barely a tickle, barely a burn. It’s quick and jerking, uneasy and uncertain. He’s nervous. There’s sweat warming his palms in the gloves. His heart is thumping uncomfortably against his ribs. He inhales, counts to ten, exhales. It’s only an experiment, he reminds himself. Only a test, working out a theory. He inhales again, presses the blade into his skin beside the first scratch. He’s careful with the pressure, certain to exert more than that previous attempt. He exhales, drags the blade in a slow line. He feels nothing at all, for the first second or two. Then there’s a burn and a warm blossom of blood. Ignis is startled. He likes the way it looks. He likes the way it feels. He carves another line, then another beside that one. He’s becoming confident with the motion. He develops a rhythm. His thigh is marked from one end to another before he decides the experiment is a success. Thin little drops of red hit the floor before his trance is broken.

 

Ignis is good with his hands. They work quick and deft when they reach for the prepared towelette. It stings when he begins to swipe away at the wounds, and the stinging translates to a low buzz in the back of his head, somewhere between his ears. A certain success, he decides. Cleaning up isn’t so simple though, works out in a way he hadn’t anticipated. The wipe spreads the blood, doesn’t absorb it, and he’s left with an uglier mess than when he began. Ignis is logical, though. He grabs the gauze, dabs it over the cuts in turn, wipes away the diluted mess between and around them. He recalls the blood on the floor when he takes a sweeping glance over his work, and he wipes that away as well. When he goes to bandage it, he opts to wrap the limb; the results were more significant than he had expected and those carefully snipped squares simply won’t do. He thinks about nothing but the pleasant burn and the methodical cleanup. He stands to test the bandage, to roll down the edge of his shorts. He’s pleased, terribly pleased, with all of it. He gathers up the tools and he stows them in the desk’s bottom drawer. He removes his gloves, presses them into the wastebin beneath a handful of crumpled sheets, and he makes a slow walk to his bed.

 

The experiment was a success. Ignis reminds himself of this point when he’s drawing covers up to his chin. He reminds himself, when he turns from one side to the other, comfort as elusive as ever. He reminds himself, when his pulse goes quick and heavy and his mind begins turning over every planned moment of the coming day. He reminds himself, when his eyes begin to burn as badly as his thigh and when they overflow, send the usual droplets to the pillowcase. The experiment was a success. He felt better, felt nothing, for a moment or two. The experiment was a success. He was the failure. 

 

* * *

 

 

There is a point, an indistinct and hazy one, where it stops being an experiment. A multi-year, intensive trial maybe? No. Ignis eventually stops trying to justify it, gives up on making it rational. He’s read more books by now and he knows a coping mechanism when he sees it. He doesn’t stop. It’s still cold and it’s still clinical, an unchanging nightly ritual. He still lays out the implements of his private destruction. He still takes those ten count breaths before he begins. His mind still empties itself and it’s the only time Ignis feels like it’s really, properly quiet.  He develops a rotation as the canvas fills. It starts at one thigh, over top. Then he moves to each side in succession. Usually, by the time one leg is healed the other is ready for a break. It progresses. Lines stretch from the top of his thigh to an inch above his knee. He decides on spots along the sides of his abdomen, over his hip, against his stomach. The rotation evolves. It helps. He keeps telling himself it helps.

 

He doesn’t prepare an excuse beforehand. It’s an unforgivable oversight, though he doesn’t realize this until, of course, it’s too late. Gladio is the one who finds out first. Ignis always has a plan, he always has an escape route and an excuse. He’s good with words and, when he’s in the moment, he excels under pressure. Gladio has a nose for bullshit though, and Ignis doesn’t have a plan. It happens when they’re sparring. It’s the only time Ignis really sees him. He’s not entirely convinced that Gladio is an entity that exists outside of that training room. He likes Gladio, he really does. He’s disciplined and he’s focused and, above all, straightforward. He says exactly what he means, without any of the pretense Ignis has been trained to both decipher and hide behind. It is, usually, refreshing. When he finds those angry red lines littering Ignis’s torso though, it’s nothing less than daunting. He probably could have avoided it, if he had been smarter, more careful. He had enough foresight to keep his shirt on, but not enough to avoid light colors. He’s caught by tiny patches of crimson on sweat-soaked cotton. He’s caught by his own negligence, by his apathy. 

 

“You’re bleeding,” Gladio says. It’s not an accusation, however much it feels like one. Just a simple statement, with Gladio’s hand tugging at his shirt. Ignis counts himself lucky that they had just finished an acceptably strenuous bout, that his cheeks are already flush from exertion. His tongue is thick though and his mind, in a rare showing, goes utterly blank. There’s no denial, no response. His brain doesn’t connect the message, doesn’t manage to fire that command to his hands and get Gladio pushed away until he’s already lifted away fabric and seen a week’s worth of work. The lines are heavy and harsh and perfectly uniform. There’s no mistaking that they were put there with a purpose. Ignis steps back, turns his head, but it’s all too late, too slow and halting and entirely unlike himself. 

 

“It’s nothing,” Ignis’s entire body might be screaming panic, might be edging toward the flight part of instinctual responses, but his voice manages not to betray this. He doesn’t run. He turns away, he avoids Gladio’s gaze, but he doesn’t run. There’s a snap, a jolt, and his mind begins churning, reaching for excuses. He considers a misdirect, a quick bit of conversation. It’s too obvious. He can outright deny it, but he knows it won’t fly. A lie will lose hard-won respect. Ignis isn’t sure if there’s any avoiding that; the truth isn’t terribly respectable either. Maybe, he thinks, Gladio will let it go. The subject is difficult and touchy and their relationship isn’t a terribly close one. They spar, they train together, they occasionally commiserate over their trials with their liege. There are no deep, soul-searching conversations. There’s only the most tenuous sort of friendship. He can feel eyes on him, but he doesn’t look. It’s easier not to look.

 

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Gladio steps forward, Ignis turns his back fully to him. An awkward little dance ensues, where Ignis avoids eye contact while Gladio seeks it out. They both, in the end, give in at once. Ignis retreats to the bench, lets his shoulders sag, lets his eyes meet Gladio. Gladio sits beside him, and for what seems to be a torturously long time, neither of them says a word. Ignis opens his mouth, closes it again. He takes his deep breaths, he picks a point on the floor to express great visual interest in. He lets the silence stretch. He refuses to move. He refuses to run. Eventually, he settles on words.

 

“It’s under control,” Ignis says. He’s all business, cold and sterile, “it doesn’t interfere with my duties. Nothing to be concerned about,” he thinks this is mostly true. He was careless this time. He let himself run out of bandages and he exerted himself too soon without their security. There were no major injuries- there never were. Just burning little lines that, for a few minutes at a time, soothed his mind and cleared his thoughts. Gladio doesn’t need all that information. Ignis sticks to the surface, gives no more than he feels is required. He tries to tell himself that Gladio doesn’t recognize the cuts for what they are; that he doesn’t recognize Ignis for what he is. Impossible, of course, but the idea helps him span the next few silent moments. Gladio, he suspects, is considering his response. Gladio is a straightforward man, no-nonsense, no bullshit. He is not, however, unkind. More importantly, he is not stupid. Gladio understands people. He has a sort of sixth sense for it, something that Ignis finds himself admiring from time to time. Ignis isn’t sure he appreciates it now.

 

“I’ll give you one of those. Wanna guess which?” Gladio folds his arms behind his head and he makes a sound Ignis isn’t familiar with. It’s a sort of concerned grunt, something uncomfortable and gruff and there probably only to fill the silence. He didn’t expect a response. Ignis wasn’t giving one. He keeps talking, “it’s a tough gig. You’ve probably got it a lot worse. Do you ever take a day off?” Ignis is taken aback by the question. He’s not sure at first if he’s meant to answer. He’s still staring forward, but he can catch Gladio’s head inclining toward him from the corner of his eye and he sighs. 

 

“I’m retainer to the crown prince. I need to be available at a moment’s notice. It’s not a job conducive to lazy Sundays,” Ignis manages a smirk and he’s terribly proud of that much. His voice remains even and measured. They’re still dancing, carefully stepping around the issue. It comes easily. It’s exactly what he’s been trained for, what he’s practically been raised for. Ignis is a damn good dancer. Gladio makes that noise again and Ignis finds himself producing something close to a chuckle in response. He tells himself this is easy, this is all part of the game. He’s able to convince himself enough that a hint of the tension squeezing between his shoulders eases. 

 

“A retainer isn’t much use if he’s killing himself over the job,” Gladio is quicker to respond this time. Ignis isn’t quite sure if it’s meant to be hyperbole. Certainly, he couldn’t think that those quick little scratches were a suicide attempt. Ignis lifts his gaze finally, but he only peeks at Gladio with a side glance. He’s careful not to move his head, not to be overt, not to be anything but briefly, casually curious. Gladio catches this. Gladio understands people, “so to speak.”

 

“Precisely what I’m trying to avoid,” Ignis is nearly surprised by his own response. He’s no stranger to any manner of self-inflicted misery, but to actually make  _ that _ escape? His mind has wandered in the direction in the midst of the worst nights. He’s considered a more permanent peace when the injuries have failed to bring him more than a moment or two of peace, but never more than a passing thought, a fleeting fancy. He has a duty, after all. And he has it under control, more or less. This is a singular misstep. This is not how Ignis operates, by and large. But the words come all the same, and he decides they might even be good ones.

 

“By going all slice-and-dice,” Gladio says it in a properly skeptical voice. Ignis should be cringing, but he responds- avoids responding- with a dry smile and a brief shrug. The noise Gladio makes now errs more on the side of frustration. It’s a similar sound, but Ignis thinks he’s starting to catch on to the subtleties. He decides it’s a useful skill to hone- the ability to translate Gladio’s vague grunts. He focuses on this, because it means he’s not focusing on the conversation they’re actually having; the one that puts Ignis directly in the spotlight, exactly where he wants least to be, “ever considered… I dunno… talking to someone? Hitting something? Anything that isn’t  _ that _ ?” Ignis actually laughs this time. There’s an edge to Gladio’s voice, an actual quality of concern. It makes Ignis horribly uncomfortable and he has no better response than the short chuckle. 

 

“Never crossed my mind,” Ignis really is feeling a swell of pride as the conversation progresses. He manages to come across all cool wit and quick thought, now that he’s found the flow. He’s good at it. It makes him feel a little bit better, a little bit less like he’s facing a one-man firing squad. He doesn’t know how to anticipate Gladio’s responses. They’ve shared more than a fair handful of conversations, but they’re always fleeting, never substantial. Everything between them here is rapidfire, spur of the moment. Ignis is in his element. Later, when he’s finished his duties for the day and retired to his room, he’ll replay every moment, every word. He’ll agonize over missteps and analyze stutters or stumbles or imperfect responses. For now, he’s doing what he does best. Gladio is quiet again for a stretch of seconds. Ignis decides he has the upper hand. It’s another little blossom of relief. The incriminating marks on his abdomen are burning. That’s a good feeling too. Gladio stands. He makes another one of his noises. Ignis can’t translate this one.

 

“Think about it. You change your mind, you know where to find me,” Gladio’s words here take the rug out from beneath Ignis’s feet. He’s misinterpreted some of the conversation. What he had taken as a suggestion, an idle and perhaps obligatory concern, was instead an offer. He loses his focus and he loses his confidence in the conversation. He’s more than a little bit uncomfortable now. Ignis doesn’t talk, not in the way Gladio is suggesting. He doesn’t burden others with his idle concerns, with his self-inflated problems. He doesn’t put the mess inside his head on display. He absolutely doesn’t converse with Gladiolus Amicitia when he can so much more easily carve his troubles away. His smile is forced now and his eyes wander again, away from Gladio, toward the door. He stands and he nods.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Ignis says, and he begins to move. Each step is slow, deliberate. He isn’t running. He isn’t giving in to that instinct. He’s said as much as could be expected and now he’s leaving. He was planning on leaving after their bout all along. He is not running. He tells himself this. He counts seconds between his steps, measures his strides against tiles on the floor to keep them even. Gladio has caught sight of his weakness, he can’t erase that, can’t step back and undo his carelessness. He can control his exit though, and he can avoid running. Gladio calls to him that he really should consider it. He says sometimes talking helps. Ignis doesn’t respond how he wants to. He doesn’t snap about whether or not he wants help, or about the fact that Gladio has no concept of how he feels, what he experiences. He lifts a hand and swings his elbow, a slow and dismissive wave. He says again that he’ll think about it and he makes sure his tone tells Gladio that he has absolutely no intention of considering the offer. 

 

When Ignis finishes with the prince, when he returns to his quarters for the night, he begins his ritual again. He lays out his kit and he takes his seat at the desk. He stops. The conversation has already been replaying in his mind, over and over. His face burns with shame. He reaches for the razor but his hand stops just short, hovers over, returns to his side. Ignis wonders if maybe,  _ maybe  _ Gladio had a point. He wonders if there is something better than a few moments of relief after tearing open flesh that has re-woven itself a hundred times over. He stands, paces, fails to reach the ten count on his deep breaths. He rakes hands through his hair and tugs, for just a little bit of pain. A little something to hold him over. His eyes go to the desk and they go to his bed, they go back and forth across the room and he keeps pacing. 

 

He forces himself into bed. He doesn’t clear his desk. He breaks his ritual. He gives up his comfort. Ignis feels the tears coming before they fall. He presses his face into the pillow and he sobs, heavy and racking. His marred flesh is on fire. The conversation plays again. He feels like he can’t breathe, like all the oxygen has been sucked from his lungs and from the room around him. He clutches the pillow closer, he gasps and chokes on his tears and he sobs cries harder still. His knees draw up into his chest. He rolls, he clenches up every muscle in his body. He feels like his heart will explode, like he might actually, literally be dying. The conversation repeats. He doesn’t return to the desk. He doesn’t know if this is the better decision.

 

* * *

 

 

Things begin to change. Ignis begins to change. He talks to Gladio. Not at first, not for some weeks after that first conversation. It takes more courage than he expects. It leaves him drained and shaken, even when they end up talking about nothing at all. He breaks his ritual again. Somewhere along the line, the prince becomes Noctis. He becomes more independent, if not terribly more responsible. Ignis finds himself, while Noctis is busy with classes, with free time on his hands. He finds himself adding a few extra hours of training to his schedule. He talks to Gladio more. His rituals shift. He doesn’t empty the bottom drawer, but he doesn’t open it either. Not for a long time. He’s busy, but he’s finding ways to manage. The stress is still there, buzzing and heavy in his chest. The sleepless nights still come. He finds ways to keep himself busy through them. He drafts up papers, samplings of documents in language Noctis should become familiar with. He knows Noctis will ignore the carefully crafted folders. It’s frustrating, but it’s worth it. It keeps him busy. He gets a taste for coffee. Sometimes, he can go full nights without ever touching the mattress. Sometimes, it isn’t even panic propelling him to stay awake. 

 

Eventually, Ignis finds that the ritual has been so interrupted, so utterly broken, that all of those familiar red lines have faded to white. He feels a little bit of pride when he stands in front of the mirror. The marks are still raised, ugly, unlikely to ever fade entirely. The cuts have healed though, gone without replacement. He’s put the ritual to rest. He tells Gladio. He keeps his words light, casual, makes a point not to betray the meaning there. Gladio knows bullshit. He gives Ignis a smile and he claps a big, heavy hand on his shoulder, gives him a shake, gives him an ‘I told you so’. Ignis smiles. 

 

Noctis moves to an apartment, after what feels like an eternity of endless pestering and begging. They manage to put together an argument that it’s a perfect test of growth, that Noctis can prove how much he’s matured. Ignis isn’t sure how he gets roped into it. He realizes, when Noctis comes to him with the plot in mind, that they’re becoming friends. Ignis cares deeply for him, even if he doesn’t admit so much. They’ve grown up together, very nearly as long as either can remember. Their relationship is still uneasy at times, still push and pull, but they are friends. No. Brothers. That’s a more accurate term, really, with all of their bickering, all of their back and forth, all of their absolutely silent affection. Noctis is moody, he’s pushing back against his duties as crown prince. Ignis is frustrated beyond measure. Those old feelings are still waiting just beneath the surface; the ones that tell him he’s failing in his duties, failing the prince and the king and the entirety of Lucis. He finds new ways to ignore it.

 

Ignis throws himself into the kitchen. He doesn’t admit it, but he enjoys cooking. It’s something he can focus on, something that can clear his thoughts of everything else. The worries about failure, about inadequacy, they fade for a little while when he’s at the cutting board, when he’s pouring through recipes and working out adjustments. Noctis asks him to recreate a tart he remembers from his childhood in Tenebrae. Ignis can’t quite get it right. There’s a certain ingredient, something that Noctis can’t name, that Ignis can’t place based on his descriptions. He tries a dozen times over. He comes to Noctis’s apartment with countless batches. Noctis has, it appears, finally made a friend all his own. They manage to make enough mess to keep him exasperated and busy for hours. They find countless ways to slack off. Ignis meets Prompto, decides immediately that he’s a bad influence. He gives harsh lectures. Noctis fights back, pushes away. He ignores more duties, creates more headaches. Ignis leaves meals for them both because, another admission he won’t make, he’s a little bit glad that Noctis has that bad influence. He doesn’t need the encouragement toward laziness, not by any means, but he needs the companionship. He needs a friend who is only a friend, who isn’t on payroll for the service. The duality weighs heavily. It would be easier if Ignis hadn’t grown so fond of Noctis. His judgment is clouded. He’s failing his duties and it’s not going unnoticed.

 

Ignis continues with the tarts. He’s sure he’s worked it out this time. The berries were difficult to track down- a variety native to Tenebrae. He’s read up and researched. And, after a particularly severe row, he’s dedicated a fair portion of his stipend to procuring the ingredient. He’s convinced, utterly confident that he’s finally worked it out. There’s a passing fancy in his mind, one where Noctis is so impressed, so ingratiated, that he begins to make a real effort with his supplemental studies. He waits out the timer, leafing through papers he’s decided to deliver along with the tarts. Nothing new, but hope springs eternal. He opens the oven and Ignis’s eyes honestly light up. Pride swells in him. The little desserts are perfectly formed. They smell divine. He leans in to slide the pan out. It happens in an instant. A searing, unexpected pain across his forearm. His hand seizing and twitching, recoiling on instinct. The heavy metallic din of a pan, full of perfectly formulated tarts, hitting the floor. Ignis curses, steps back, curses again. A flash of anger, directed only at himself. He kicks the oven door shut, kicks the pan of ruined pastries across the floor. The burn is throbbing, white-hot. Ignis closes his eyes. It’s a different pain. It’s not his old ritual, but it does the trick. It’s innocent, easily and honestly explained away. His mind clears for just a moment, focuses on the pain, focuses on the familiar relief that comes with it. He cleans the kitchen in silence, in a perfect, searing serenity. He empties the tin sheet into the trash, pauses, allows a moment of frustration to crumple Noctis’s papers in right along before he leaves.

 

Things change again. They always do. It’s a cycle, Ignis decides. He doesn’t reorder the berries. He’s still certain he got that one right on the failed attempt. On the downward spiral. He spends afternoons in the kitchen, coming up with new, incorrect recipes. He takes them to Noctis and argues over unwashed dishes and burnt-out pans and homework that should have been done weeks before. He lectures over time spent at the arcade, over ignored lessons that will be essential to his success as king. He is, more times than not, ignored. He returns to his quarters and he settles at his desk. His ritual isn’t a ritual any more. It’s just a safety lighter and the flat end of a metal nail file. It replicates the oven burn almost perfectly. He doesn’t bother with the wipes or the gauze. The pain lasts longer. His head clears a little bit more. Sometimes, he can even sleep.

 

The arguments get worse. Noctis’s new trick is shutting down, ignoring Ignis completely. He doesn’t know how to respond any more. Ignis stops going to spar and chat with Gladio. Gladio says nothing, to his knowledge. He must be aware of the situation. He must know as much as Ignis suspects. He’ll be relieved of his duties, replaced with someone competent, shown the door away from the only home he’s ever truly known. He’s felt sick for days. He doesn’t sleep. His chest is tight, his head buzzing more often than not. His hands take on a tremor that he can’t seem to steady. Too much caffeine, not enough sleep, his life unwinding in front of him. He wonders what the odds are of a heart attack at twenty. He’s starting to cross his fingers in favor of it. 

 

He voices his suspicions to Noctis as they approach a week of the petulant silent treatment. Ignis has already taken to mindless chatter while he’s working around the apartment. He hopes that it might be enough for Noctis to snap at him, to work out some of whatever anger he’s feeling, to let them move past this. Ignis can’t even recall the details of their fight at this point. More of the usual, he suspects. His mind doesn’t feel like it fires at full speed any more. He’s given up. His dismissal seems a foregone conclusion by this point. Noctis has ignored every attempt at meaningful lessons. He’s expected to sit on meetings, show some engagement. Ignis sees the dossiers he’s prepared, untouched on the coffee table day after day. He gives up on filtering himself. He gives up on a lot of things. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow and he’s working on yet another burnt out frying pan. He’s asked Noctis before how this keeps happening. Nobody seems to know. Prompto is usually blamed. Ignis can’t decide if he believes it or not. Noctis is stretched out on the couch, flipping endlessly through the TV. He’s not watching anything and Ignis is convinced he has no intention to. It’s an act, one designed to make Ignis well-aware that he is being pointedly ignored. It’s entirely unnecessary and Ignis is tempted to tell him as much. He clears his throat instead.

 

“If you insist on destroying the cookware, you might at least come learn how to fix it,” his voice is neutral. There’s none of the usual frustration that had tinted it over the recent weeks. There’s no emotion there at all, really. Ignis has managed, mostly, to detach. It’s still painful. He doesn’t want to lose his job or his home. Moreover, he doesn’t want to lose Noctis. Their relationship is still difficult, even in the best of times, but he can’t deny his affection for the haughty prince. He still tries to win favor. He still brings those damn not-quite-right tarts, “you might at least make my replacement believe I’ve taught you  _ something _ over the years,” still none of the exasperation he’s buried peeking through. He hears the station pause, then the set goes silent. He doesn’t look over, but Ignis hears a shifting of springs in the couch.

 

“What replacement?” Noctis is attempting to keep his voice just as even, but Ignis can pick up a hint of concern. It’s apparent, really, just from the fact that Noctis is responding to him. Ignis doesn’t reply at first. He goes to the fridge instead. The state of the thing is fairly sad. Ignis has given up on stocking it with vegetables, only to see them turn slowly to a brown liquid sludge as Noctis would pointedly ignore them. There are last night’s leftovers, clearly half-destroyed as some midnight snack. There’s an empty sheet of plastic, ringed for sodas that have clearly been finished. Their cans are probably still littering the apartment. There’s the occasional condiment or ingredient, a block of cheese, some milk that Ignis is certain went off near a week ago now. He frowns at it all. Noctis really hasn’t been making any attempt, despite all of his best efforts. He finds the baking soda tucked at the back of the mid shelf and returns with it to the ruined pan.

 

“A prince requires a retainer. They won’t simply let you go without, whatever your desires are,” Ignis says. He knows it’s not the answer Noctis is seeking. That’s the point. He hears the couch creak again and he isn’t entirely surprised when the light shifts and Noctis appears in the doorway. He glances over his shoulder, only for a moment. Ignis has made a point not to properly begin with the pan yet. He’s cleaned out the flaking bits, something that both smelled and looked like it may have been an egg. He’s glad he wasn’t present for that experiment. He inclines his head, full of hope that he might manage to teach Noctis  _ something  _ of use. 

 

“You’re my retainer,” Noctis says, his voice absolutely betraying his frustration. Ignis nearly smiles. He’s learned to read Noctis well over the years. There’s a brief feeling of affection warming his chest. It’s followed immediately by a resigned sadness, a mourning for the loss he’s given up denying, “why would someone be replacing you?” Ignis does smile now, and he extends an arm in an inviting gesture. Noctis hesitates, but he comes to his side at the sink. That’s something, Ignis decides. It’s certainly better than he’s become accustomed to.

 

“How did your last meeting go?” Ignis asks. He’s darting the question again, but only for setup. He can practically feel the way Noctis tenses up. That’s good. At least he realizes he made a fool of himself. He probably hasn’t made the connection yet, or maybe he doesn’t care to, that he’s made a fool of Ignis as well. It doesn’t matter any more though, Ignis decides. He decided that quite a while ago, really. He watches Noctis for a moment, waits for a response, then looks back to the pan. There’s a sigh on his lips that he doesn’t quite want to release, “I suspected as much,” he says to the silence. Noctis’s head drops, though his eyes narrow. Ignis isn’t sure if it’s proper shame for being so ill-prepared or simply for being called on it. He suspects the latter, given the stack of papers that’s still been untouched on the coffee table, “here,” Ignis hands the box of baking soda over to Noctis then steps aside. He lingers over Noctis’s shoulder when he takes position in front of the sink.

 

“What do I do with this?” Noctis is lifting the box, reading the back. Ignis allows himself to chuckle and shake his head. He really will miss it. Noctis, absolutely hopeless in far too many areas, still has a sort of endearing quality about him. Ignis wonders briefly about his potential replacement, this hazy figure he has imagined here and there while he’s considered is all-too-probable dismissal. Will he know how to handle Noctis, when he’s having one of his moods? Will he figure out what questions to ask, when he doesn’t want to admit exactly what it is that’s bothering him? Will he care enough to use that sort of tact, to allow Noctis his teenage fancies? Those are all questions, of course, that only reinforce Ignis’s light touch with the prince. They are case in point for his failings as a retainer, tutor, mentor… his eyes cast down for a moment, shame absolutely eating away at him.

 

“Pour it into the pan. You want to cover all of the burnt spots,” Ignis forces himself past his inner thoughts, past the fears that have been plaguing him since his last lecturing. He had been reminded of his duties, of how important they were to the prince, the king, the whole of the country. Ignis was well aware of that, of course; and he was well aware of his failings. He swore that there would not be a repeat of their previous meeting. Noctis had, apparently, slouched half-asleep in his seat through most of it. There was a moment of blank staring, Ignis was informed, when he was addressed. Noctis’s eventual response had been far from acceptable for anyone sitting on the council, much less the crown prince himself. Ignis was mortified, and rightly so. While Noctis may have been the one ignoring his duties, Ignis had not entirely pressed him as hard as he should have, perhaps not imparted the exact importance. There would be a reprise in a few days time and then, Ignis has come to accept, they might be so kind as to offer him a chance at resignation. He focuses again on Noctis, watches him pour the baking soda over the pan. It’s an uneven, sloppy coating, but it will do the job, “Good. Now you want to add some water,” his hand reaches out to stop Noctis from going directly to the faucet, “not too much. You just want to cover the powder, then-”

 

“-hey,” Noctis interrupts him abruptly. He sets the pan aside and seizes Ignis’s hand instead and time freezes for just a second. He tells himself, in that startled moment, that Noctis is only going to complain about him avoiding the question. He convinces himself, as he’s been convincing himself for a number of weeks at this point, that the new ritual hasn’t gone out of control; that the multitude of identical burns lined down his arm can still easily be explained away. He convinces himself that Noctis isn’t carefully examining the marks, twisting Ignis’s arm at an uncomfortable angle while his brow furrows and his mouth become a tight line. Ignis is pretty good at convincing himself of things, really. Noctis gives his wrist a slight squeeze, turns his gaze to his face, “what’s all this? Are these burns?”

 

“Hazards of the kitchen. Now, you don’t want too much water, just enough to go over the baking soda,” he pulls his arm away and leans across Noctis to seize the pan and start the faucet. He tells himself to focus, to brush it off. If he lets it drop, after all, it must not be important. Noctis, even if he ignores a great deal of what he says, tends to trust his judgment. Noctis is more inclined to ignore than to argue anyway. He doesn’t get an immediate response so again Ignis is convincing himself, this time that his redirect has been successful. He carefully balances the pan and pivots toward the stove, sets the mess on a burner and clicks the dial, “you’ll want to let it reach a boil. But we’ll keep an eye on it. No good burning it further.”

 

“You’re not clumsy,” Noctis says, and he stays by the sink. Ignis can absolutely feel his eyes burning into the back of his neck. He makes a point not to turn. He dries his hands on the rag hanging from the oven’s handle and he carefully rolls down his sleeves. A bit late for that, but he leans into the old ‘out of sight, out of mind’ saying, “You’ve been cooking forever, I’ve never seen you get burnt once. And you never answered me about the ‘replacement’ thing. What the hell is going on with you?” Ignis clenches a hand around the oven handle. He’s angry, though he’s not sure entirely why. He’s been caught again, it seems. It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself, but it sure as hell feels like it does. He doesn’t look at Noctis. He can’t look at Noctis. The anger melts quickly to shame. His brain has frozen up again and the gripping hand begins to tremble from the effort. Why is he like this? Why can’t he just do his job? Why can’t he accept his inadequacy like a normal person, if he can’t? His chest feels tight. He tries to ignore it. He tries to ignore everything. Noctis keeps talking, “Gladio says you aren’t showing up to train any more. I think he’s worried. Should  _ I  _ be worried too?” 

 

“It’s no cause for concern, I assure you,” Ignis is relieved that he can manage these words, clipped and emotionless. He feels utterly sick, a sort of heaviness in his stomach that’s difficult to set aside. He’ll need to answer questions. He needs to prioritize. If he confesses to the injuries, he won’t need to speak on the fact that he’s likely about to be fired. Conversely, Noctis will find out about that soon enough regardless, and he might entirely avoid copping to hurting himself. Better yet, it might buy him some time to work out an excuse, something a little bit more believable than the kitchen angle. Gladio has a nose for bullshit, and if Noctis tells him, he’ll certainly make the short jump to the truth. He may even tell Noctis. That settles it in Ignis’s mind, “I’m sure you’re well-aware that I have a number of duties in my role as retainer. Chief among them, at this stage, is preparing you to take the throne. Unfortunately,” he pauses here and he looks Noctis in the eye. There’s a particular look that Ignis has perfected, one that he knows will make Noctis shrink up in an instant. He imparts it before he continues, “my work has been consistently deemed less than satisfactory as of late. Shocking, I’m sure. I suspect my dismissal will follow your next royal assembly,” there is a clear bite to his words, but they are otherwise dispassionate. When Noctis’s expression turns to shock then plummets to shame, Ignis is nearly inclined to apologize.

 

“That’s stupid,” Noctis says, after taking a moment to apparently collect himself. His brow has furrowed harshly and, for a moment, Ignis things he very deeply resembles the king. Noctis straightens his posture slightly, his face still turned hard. He stares Ignis down in a way that is almost entirely disarming. He doesn’t often see this sort of determination in the prince; he hasn’t seen it recently, in any case. Gratitude swells in Ignis’s chest, though he doesn’t allow his expression to reflect it. He doesn’t allow himself to crack at all. Quietly, internally, he agrees with Noctis’s assessment. There’s a certain harsh, unfair feeling to being punished for someone else’s unwillingness to put forth effort. It is, however, Ignis’s job to quash such behavior and ensure a certain level of discipline. He can’t really defend himself when it comes time to sit in review any more. He’s been far too lenient, become far too fond. It shows. It has, most likely, cost him everything, “they can’t fire you just because I fell asleep at some boring meeting. I’ll tell my father, he’ll straighten it out.”

 

“Your father,” Ignis begins, but he isn’t entirely sure how he should respond. He’s being harsh on Noctis. He should have been harsh on Noctis far before it ever came to this point. What good does it do now? He tugs down at his cuff, creates friction, and the burns shoot harsh signals of pain in response. It grounds him. He sighs, he continues, “will want what’s in your best interest. He is, I’m afraid, well aware of my failings,” that, really, is all there is to it. King Regis is the one who will decide Ignis’s fate on this matter in the end. Noctis arguing the point will, in all likelihood, only drive it home. Ignis thinks he should probably point this out, but really, what’s the use? It’s almost a nice feeling, he thinks, knowing that Noctis would stand up for him. Despite the near week of silent petulance, their relationship is, really, relatively unscathed. There is still a fondness between them, a sort of kinship. Ignis feels a pang and he moves to grip the edge of the counter now. His heart is beating too fast again, he’s feeling horribly nauseous, dizzy, unsteady on his feet. It’s hot in the room, incredibly and unbearably hot. A sweat is breaking at his forehead. His hands are trembling, outright shaking. He tugs at his sleeve again. He isn’t subtle. Noctis is saying something, he’s reaching to turn off the stove’s burner. Ignis can’t quite make out the words, can’t translate the sounds into meaning. He pulls his cuff again. His head is light. Is he going to pass out? He can’t get a grasp on his breathing- too quick, too harsh. The pain from the burns isn’t making it to his brain. Noctis’s voice is getting louder, more insistent. 

 

“Sit  _ down _ ,” Noctis’s voice is loud, almost a shout here. Ignis attempts to wave it off, to assure that he’s quite fine, but it’s no use. His tongue is too thick, his mind is too scattered, too weak. There was a hint of panic in Noctis’s voice, something Ignis identifies belatedly. He thinks that he should press away the concern, should keep talking, should breeze past this. He feels, however, like his legs may give out. Noctis’s arms circle around his waist and, before that can happen, he is lowered gently to the floor. Ignis hates this, he absolutely and utterly abhors the state he’s fallen into. It feels like his entire body is rebelling against itself, against his mind. It feels like the room is flipping, like he’s sliding across the floor and simply waiting to be thrown into an adjacent wall. It feels most of all like he’s failing in grand new ways, far worse than allowing Noctis to take a nap amongst dignitaries. His eyes are burning so he snaps them shut, he draws his knees up to his chest and he clutches them there. Noctis has gone quiet now, but he’s hovering close. Ignis can practically feel the warmth of his body, can damn near sense the lightly veiled panic. This is bad. This is worse than bad. Why can’t he just pull himself together? 

 

Noctis tells him he’s going to get help. Ignis makes a noise that is strangled, pathetic, hopeless. He wants to beg him off. If he wasn’t doomed already, he certainly is now. Word will reach the king in no time and it will be that much more clear that Ignis is incompetent, incapable, irredeemable. He wants very much to scream. He wants to reach out for Noctis, to stop him. He manages to tell him no, to swear he doesn’t need any assistance. He can’t come up with an excuse, with any reasonable explanation. He can’t come up with words at all, beyond that ‘please, don’t’ whimper. He thinks of uncurling himself, of standing, of finding a way back home. The thought of home is too fleeting now, too insubstantial. It won’t exist for him, soon enough. It doesn’t stop him from longing for his room though, for his desk, for his ritual. He adjusts himself, grips one hand across the line of injuries on the opposite arm, gives a rough squeeze and a quick twist. Blistered, half-mended flesh is tearing against his sleeve. It’s a distraction. Not enough, but it’s a start. Noctis is talking again, but he isn’t speaking to Ignis.  Ignis forces his eyes open. He sees Noctis on the phone, he sees a particular expression on his face. Noctis isn’t good with emergencies, he doesn’t deal well with the stress of such situations. Ignis wants to tell him he’s fine, but even Noctis won’t believe that.

 

Ignis doesn’t think he’s talking to any emergency services, based on what words his mind is able to translate into meanings. He doesn’t think that Noctis is going so overboard as to call an ambulance or any such nonsense. He doesn’t work out who  _ is  _ on the other line, but it seems inconsequential. A lot of things, very suddenly, seem inconsequential. What’s the worst case scenario? Noctis on the phone with his father, telling him that his retainer has lost his damn mind, that something must be done? It will expedite the process, but the end result is the same. Noctis isn’t on the phone with the king though, Ignis is sure of that. He knows Noctis. He’s known Noctis since he was a child. There are, in fact, few people Noctis is less likely to turn to in such a situation. He thinks he should tell Noctis to hang up, should try again to convince him he’s fine, but he doesn’t. Ignis keeps his eyes shut and he tries to focus, on steadying his breaths or calming the thumping between his ribs. It doesn’t work, but he can close out the sounds. He can ignore Noctis when he comes back to his side, when he puts a hand on his shoulder or says that ‘he’s coming by’. Who is he? Ignis missed that part, somewhere stuck inside his head. 

 

Time moves slowly when he’s in this place. It doesn’t happen often, this act of falling apart. Rather, it never used to happen so often. It was always at night before, while he counted seconds and minutes and hours and they somehow managed to stretch into days. Ignis powers through it, usually. Sometimes, those cold tendrils wrap themselves around when he’s in his room, when he’s pouring over reports that he needs to summarize so that they can sit untouched on the prince’s coffee table. Sometimes he stares at a single word and the seconds become minutes and the minutes hours before he realizes he’s sat half the night trying to remember that he is, in fact, breathing. Sometimes it goes in the opposite direction, where his eyes have been closed for a full night, where he gives up on sleep to start the day early, only to find that not an hour has passed. Usually, he’s alone. Every other time, he’s been alone. He hasn’t had Noctis giving what he can only assume are frantic words meant to somehow soothe. Nobody else sees him break. That is most essential. Ignis is a mess, he knows this about himself, he’s accepted it at some point. He’s a private mess, though. He is carefully contained chaos, falling to pieces and collecting himself back together before anyone can see. This is different. This is falling apart and losing track of everything, with his charge there to witness. This is a final nail in some proverbial coffin. This is the end of the world, more or less. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been sitting here, how long Noctis has been off the phone, has been touching a hand to his shoulder or his arm or muttering words that Ignis doesn’t hear; doesn’t really hear, not enough to understand or decipher. It’s all static, all background noise, going at a snail’s pace and going after than light.

 

The ‘he’ who is stopping by, as it turns out, is Gladio. Ignis hears his voice, a relative boom to Noctis’s concerned whispers. The words still don’t match meanings, not at first, but he lifts his head and he opens his eyes and when he manages this Gladio’s face is perhaps a foot from his own, eyes studying him. Ignis understands, belatedly, that Gladio asked him to look up, to look at him, because he’s rewarded with a brief ‘good’ in response. Gladio is impressive. He does well in situations that no man has any right doing well in. Ignis will miss him. He wishes desperately that Noctis hadn’t called him. He feels rising shame, feels sinking in his gut. Gladio doesn’t need to be concerned with this. Gladio knows too much already. Ignis confided too much in him, but not this. He allowed Gladio to stay pleased in his belief that Ignis was dealing with things, that he was doing better. He really, really wishes that Noctis hadn’t called. Noctis  _ had  _ called though and Gladio is there, staring Ignis down, speaking slow and clear so that the words cut through the haze.

 

He asks Ignis if he can stand. Ignis wants to lash out, wants to say that he absolutely can stand, that he absolutely can handle this on his own and sorry that Noctis called you but, really, this is all under control. What he says, however, is nothing at all. His shoulders lift, he begins to nod, but Ignis suddenly isn’t sure. His legs feel at once unspeakably heavy and tingling feather-light. They’re jelly that hasn’t quite set. No, he realizes, he probably can’t stand. Not on his own. Gladio interprets the non-response and he hooks an arm up under Ignis’s. He supports most of Ignis’s weight easily. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t so much as offer a look in disdain. Gladio is too good a man, is too patient with him, too forgiving. Ignis doesn’t deserve forgiveness. Ignis is weak. He has failed at serving his prince. He deserves to be left some pathetic mess, cowering and nearly sobbing on a kitchen floor while said failed prince stares in horror. He’s walked over to the living room instead. He’s guided to the sofa.

 

Gladio reminds Ignis to breathe. Ignis says, in a voice that is in fact quite strangled, that he can’t. He’s had the feeling of suffocating for what feels like a lifetime now. Gladio frowns briefly before he sets his face back to that strange, serene sort of compassion. He works open the top few buttons on Ignis’s shirt and he rolls up his sleeves. It feels good, getting some air on his skin. It feels a little bit less like he’s being absolutely choked. There’s even a moment of relief, a thought that Ignis can gather himself up and apologize, thank Gladio for his concern and make his way out the door. Gladio, of course, seizes up one had by the wrist. He examines those lines of burns and just as quickly Ignis can’t breathe again. He closes his eyes. He hears Gladio tell Noctis to retrieve the first aid kit. The same calm remains in his voice. It’s almost eerie. More than that, it’s reassuring, as if that calm is contagious. Ignis is reminded to breathe again. He does this. He continues to do this, slow, even, counted breaths. Ritual breathing. He breathes through Gladio tending to the burns and he breathes through Gladio putting a strong hand on his shoulder, guiding him to lay back across the couch.

 

His heart, at some point, begins to feel less like it’s trying to forcibly remove itself from Ignis’s chest. Eventually, he doesn’t need to count the breaths any more. Gladio speaks, he says things that are calming, things that Ignis doesn’t entirely hear. Ignis doesn’t open his eyes. He’s exhausted, utterly and quite suddenly. A mug of tea appears in his hands eventually. Ignis inhales the scent, something lightly floral. Something that seems to invoke that same calm as Gladio’s steady voice and careful, brief touches. Ignis doesn’t drink more than a sip or two. Ignis, eventually, feels himself sinking off to sleep. His mind is scrambled, detached, impossible to get a hold of. He knows that he should be going home. He knows that this is the last place he should be, passing out on the prince’s couch when his presence there would soon be unwelcome. He thinks he tries to say this, but he’s not sure the words come out. He’s not sure of anything but darkness.

 

Ignis doesn’t know how long he’s slept, but he knows it’s the first proper and restful sleep he’s had in a long time. The sun is up when he wakes and it is almost immediately apparent that he is alone in the apartment. There is a note left from Gladio asking (instructing?) him to get in contact when he can. It is the only piece of paper left on the coffee table. His dossier for Noctis is missing. The tea he mostly abandoned has been taken away. When he gets to his feet, heads to the kitchen to finish the cleaning, he finds it immaculate. He owes Gladio some words of thanks. He owes Gladio a lot, if he’s being honest with himself.

 

He comes to owe Gladio a lot more through the days that follow. He owes him for the training sessions he forces Ignis to resume and the words he forces Ignis to say. He owes him for whatever he says to Noctis that actually seems to get him on track. He owes him when it seems that the storm has passed, when meetings come and go and Noctis’s behavior has apparently improved. He owes him when his job seems, for the moment, to be safe. It’s a lot of debt to be in, but Gladio is pulling him out of the deepest depths again. Gladio is talking to him, about how much he hates this job sometimes, about how he feels like the weight of it is going to crush him. It surprises Ignis how much he finds in common with the shield, once they actually begin to speak, once their friendship becomes more than dutiful concern. 

 

The same can be said for Noctis, who Ignis finds out has finally decided to take a little initiative. Who finally reads the papers Ignis puts so much work into at night, when he’s trying again to avoid rituals, when he’s even managing to do so as many nights as he doesn’t. Noctis doesn’t talk to him the way Gladio does, not really. He doesn’t admit to any of his stress, to anything he’s feeling. Ignis doesn’t need him to, though. Ignis has known Noctis their entire lives and he can see through it all. Ignis even manages to work out, to accept that maybe Noctis is trying harder on his behalf. He managed to work out that Noct really doesn’t want to see him go and that, despite everything, he certainly doesn’t want to fail his designated role. Things are shifting again. The stress is almost manageable now, with Gladio and his training sessions; with Noctis and his attempts to do better. Ignis almost thinks he can actually pull this all off. He sees his own struggles reflected in his- and isn’t this the most surprising development of all- friends. 

 

Each of them carries a duty they are bound to, a future they cannot escape and that they did not choose themselves. Ignis’s stress, his fear, his often overwhelming uncertainty- they are not singular and unknown. These are the burdens they all carry, each heavy in their own right. Perhaps it will be easier, not to carry them alone.


End file.
